Fallout
by Queenie Mab
Summary: Dying for the one you love is the measure of heroism, but surviving hurts.


**Disclaimer:** _Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended._

I cover my mouth with my arm, as I watch Rowle fall from my spell into a crumpled heap. It's hard to see through the red and green smog swirling in the light cast from the street lamps: the residue of a hundred rapidly fired curses.

Something's not right. I hold my wand at the ready, taking refuge behind an overturned cart in front of Eeylops Owl Emporium. I can see the curses and their counters, the expansions of Shield Charms deflecting more, but though they're firing all around me, I can't hear anything.

I thrust my jaw a few times, trying to figure out if it's my ears that have been affected or if a Silencing Spell has been cast over the battle. The scent of lightning and burnt hair irritates my nose.

I spot Harry through the wisps of smoke. He seems to be holding his own against Travers. This is it: the moment of triumph, the climax of the post war battles. The remaining Death Eaters had not fallen quiet after Harry defeated the Dark Lord. Shortly after the Battle of Hogwarts, they regrouped under the leadership of Rodolphus Lestrange, and began their attacks anew. The past couple of years, the Auror department and the Order of the Phoenix recruited and fought back. Now, staged in the middle of Diagon Alley, the last battle is nearly won.

I take a deep breath and rise to my feet. It happens then; time slows down. From a distance I see Greg's mouth under his mask mouthing the words of the Killing Curse. The wand in his hand springs to life as the spell bursts from its tip, green and deadly, and headed straight for me. In the split second I have left to live, I am so thankful that it is me who is falling and not Harry. My memories of our time together fly across my mind, so vivid and real, I can nearly touch them.

I prepare to die.

—XoX—

My parents were led away from the Battle of Hogwarts shortly after daybreak. For once in his life, my father refused to flee, and agreed to go quietly with the Aurors. I wanted to go with them, but with a subtle shake of her head and a widening of her eyes, my mother forbade me. I could tell she was willing me to accept the mercy being offered, even if it didn't feel like mercy at the time.

I wandered the corridors for hours afterwards, unsure of how welcome my presence was, afraid of meeting a survivor with a grudge against me, especially as I was wandless. Dust from the crumbling walls and curse-scarred statues saturated the air. It was an accident when I found Potter. I tripped over his foot, and pulled his invisibility cloak off his hunched figure as I fell.

Potter did not look like himself at all. He did not hold himself like a great victor should. He didn't even seem to notice he'd been discovered by me, just looked blankly ahead of himself, his face streaked with blood, tears, sweat, and dirt: staring, but not seeing.

I don't recall exactly what passed through my mind at the time, but perhaps because I owed it to him for saving my life, perhaps because I had nothing else to do, I helped him up and he allowed it. We walked without speaking, Potter leaning on me for support, to the Prefects' bathroom. It seemed like the most logical next step in my shell-shocked mind, to clean up and wash off the remnants of the Dark Lord's fall.

I suppose it should have felt odd having Potter stand waiting while I filled the bathtub for us to share, but it didn't. The Prefects' bath is large enough for several people, and in our states of fatigue and shock, we just went with it.

I washed quickly, relief coursing through my body as I felt my fears and pain leave my body along with the blood and soot. Potter had saved my life only hours before, pulled me up onto his broomstick to keep me from being burnt alive. I had no words to offer him that would express my gratitude, so I said nothing. When I came up from my final rinse, I noticed Potter hadn't washed. He was watching me. I could see his eyes move behind the streaked lenses of his glasses, but he made no move to wash himself.

I'm not sure why I did it, but it felt right at the time. I washed him. He allowed it. It didn't even cross my mind that Potter might prefer a friend to help him instead of me, but he didn't complain. He let me take off his glasses and wash his body, but turned his face and made me save it for last. I lowered him under the water, cradled his back in my arms and helped him rinse away the last of the soap scum.

He focussed on me when he came up from the water, and it was like we both knew what we needed even though we hadn't said a word. As though it was inevitable, we kissed.

We kissed and kissed, changing positions, trading places, clinging to each other as if to life, unable to stop even to breathe, lest the magic break. It was sloppy and wet, full of tears, and pain, but the language of two souls grateful to be alive was what we were speaking.

After that, things were different. I felt lighter, freer than I ever had in my entire life, and I think Potter felt it too. He was Harry to me after that, in private, and we met up again when the Order of the Phoenix was recruiting volunteers. We still never spoke about the kisses we'd share late at night, when one of us would climb into the other's bunk in the Order's safehouse, so as not to be alone. Not even when the kisses turned to more and, eventually, we realised we were partners.

Every morning we'd wake early, return to our own beds and maintain our personas while we discussed tactics and fought the remaining Death Eaters when we could.

Things changed last night, only last night. The first time we'd made love, the words that we'd refused to utter came out in a rush of hurried kisses, thrusts, and declarations of fidelity. This was to be our last battle. Even if the Death Eaters were not fully eradicated, Harry and I were leaving. We were striking off on our own tour of the world to seek a future together that was not tainted by bloodshed and loss.

But as the spell races towards me, I realise it's for the best that I die. Harry is the survivor, the hero. He will triumph and live up to his moniker no matter what happens to me. I'm thankful for the time we had, for the love we had. I close my eyes and welcome oblivion.

—XoX—

It doesn't come. What comes instead is a huge pain in my head and chest as I hit the ground, knocked aside by what feels like a giant's club. Sound fills my ears, though it is tampered with a sort of ringing, and I can taste blood in my mouth.

There are shouts and bangs, curses being fired still, the battle raging on.

I open my eyes a crack, my lungs screaming against my ribs, and a wailing fills my ears, sending my flesh crawling with panic.

Still green eyes stare forward: vacant and solid. Harry's glasses are broken; they dangle half off his nose and his hand stretched towards me on the ground; his wand lies inches away in the dirt, next to mine.

It's a moment before I realise the wailing scream is coming from me, and I close my mouth with my fist, biting down so hard I can feel my flesh break.

I reach out, my fingers trembling, pushing his fringe out of his eyes. His scar revealed, I'm lost in it. Lost in time. I want time to stop right now. There is no day after I will acknowledge. I curl up beside him, holding him close, leaching the warmth that is left. He died for me, so I could live, the selfish bastard. If I can stay right here, right now, never letting him go, I will.


End file.
